Little Bird
by CG
Summary: Someone wants revenge on Hannibal, and will go to unimaginable lengths to get it: Dr. Lecter's own daughter! I would love some reviews ^_^
1. The Nest

The Very (insert adjective of interest here) Disclaimer- Believe it or not, I did not create any of these beautiful characters besides Elizabeth her friends. Oh, and the cat's mine too =^_^=.   
  
Author's note- Based on an idea I had. It was only going to be about a chapter at first, but it grew and grew. Feedback would be loved. Please, it's not that hard to write a simple little note. I really want to know if this is any good. This should only be about a three-chapter thing, that will probably be finished over the weekend. I've just not had enough time. >_<   
  


**Little Bird**  
  
_ If I were a wing of the wind  
Would I soar away from here  
Would the sky kiss my plumes  
And take me away  
Would you call after me  
Or let me fly  
Knowing in your heart that  
I could never stray far  
And would come back to you  
When my wings fatigued  
And my heart in need  
For home  
_   
ONE~ Nest  
  


A girl, coppery brown hair and vibrant green eyes, walks toward the mansion that would be demeaning to anyone except one of distinct poise. She presses the buzzer, announces her coming to the butler, and the great iron gates swing open. You, my friend, are treading on dangerous grounds. Do you wish to follow her inside? Very well, but be cautious. The butler lets her in, with a polite bow, which she smiles at and continues down the hall and up three flights of stairs.   
  
Her room is elegant in all respects. Ivory and pale blue decor, walls covered with charcoal sketches and prints of famous masterpieces, a closet with clothing that most young girls only dream of, and stacks of piano and vocal books that have been unused for sometime. She traipses through her room, barely even looking up and heads strait to the bathroom with its white and blue tiles to match her room's decor. Standing over the sink, she gently removes the green colored contact lenses, and squirts them cleaner, and puts them into their holding case, quite gently in fact, although she despises them most strongly. They conceal her, hide what she truly is. Although, she thinks with an amused smile, the world would be more horrified with what she truly is, than she is with the prospect of having to wear the idiotic contacts. She cleans out her eyes, and then looks at herself in the mirror, quite pleased with herself. Her eyes now flash maroon.   
  
Returning to her room, she removes the itchy school uniform: the navy, pleated skirt, gray jacket, the crisp white shirt, and the navy scarf tied neatly in a bow at her neck. All these mark her as a sophomore at Montebello High School. She replaces these with a tan skirt slightly shorter than knee length, and a black tank top. Smiling, she takes a hand to the jeweled bird necklace she wears. She received it at school today, anonymously placed in her locker. It is a silver chain, with a tiny charm on the end: a silver bird with jeweled eyes and a beak of amber. A note had come with it, written on violet paper.  
  


_ Elizabeth,  
Never be afraid to fly.   
-a friend_  
  
As the handwriting was one she had never seen before, she had no idea who the gift-giver was, or for that matter, how he had access to her locker. An admirer perhaps? Her father would hate it, but for now, she is intent on wearing it.   
  
She walks back down the three flights, down the all, and into the drawing room. The house is quiet, too quiet, but something in her knows that she is not alone with the servants. She ignores the feeling however, for she has much to think about, and she intends to go about her pensiveness in her normal way. Yes, her mind is quite full today, much fuller than usual, with much more on it than the mysterious gift. The room is filled with fine art, impressionists and a few nudes, with the addition of several original sketches as well. At the center of the far wall, however, is a harpsichord, a beautiful instrument. This particular one is an incredibly elegant model, a true treasure. Her fingers begin to itch with anticipation as she approaches it.   
  
Some of the stricter house rules that do not usually come up in a household applied to this particular instrument. It was not, under any circumstance, to be used for petty playing, no "heart and soul" or "chopsticks". It is a piece of art, a jewel, and should be treated accordingly. Then there was another rule that applied to her, saying that she was not to play it without the supervision of her father, but that one was unofficially discarded, having been broken too many times. She had indeed followed the rule for some time, until she realized that her father had wanted her to break it, and though he feigned ignorance, she knew that he knew, and he knew that she knew of his knowledge, and therefore there was equilibrium. As for the first rule, she had no desire to break it.   
  
She visited the harpsichord often, as it provided her opportunity to think. There was nothing more stimulating for the mind, in her opinion, than to make beautiful music. And beautiful music she made. She was somewhat of a prodigy when it came to music, and her hands seemed to be naturally designed for piano and harpsichord playing. It was her great love, her first love. Music.   
  
She sits down at the bench, stretching her fingers gently, and begins to play the Moonlit Sonata. As her mind wanders, her fingers never flinch, seeming to know the song as if they had minds of their own. Her playing is beautiful, perfect, and elegant, and she knows this is true. The sonata was her favorite thinking piece as it was calm and relaxing, letting her mind slowly unfold its questions and help it come to conclusions.   
  
She began with the puzzle of the necklace, as that was the less pressing one. She looked handwriting on the note in her mind over and over. It was the one thing that proved the gift was not from her father, as she had expected when she first had opened the black box it had been contained in. It was a necklace of obvious style, of excellent taste, and beautiful craftsmanship. Not from Miguel, she smiled at the thought. Miguel had been trying to call her attentions, and seeing that he was an flea-brained idiot with the intellect of a single celled organism, she was certain the gift could not be from him. However, he was the only admiror she knew about. Perhaps her father disguised his handwriting? Perhaps....  
  
THUNK!  
  
To her horror, a single sound of something banging on the keyboard makes a earsplitting racket. She returns to reality, coming out of the world of her brain, and looks up to see a tiny, gray and white kitten perched atop of the harpsichord.   
  
"Mischa!" she commands, "you do know better than that!"  
  
The kitten mews haughtily in response.   
  
"You may have been worshiped as a goddess in Egypt, but you do know that my mother is the only goddess in this house. Now please come down."   
  
The kitten glares at her, licking its paw clean in a dignified manner. The girl glares back, her maroon eyes meeting the kitten's green. Neither backs off for a minute.  
  
"Off, Mischa," commands the girl.  
  
Seeing that the glaring approach did not work with her owner, the tiny kitten begins to purr and blink its eyes, posing in a cute manner.  
  
The girl giggles as she picks the kitten up by the scruff of its neck, "Ay! Mischa, if you want the pleasure of my company sit on my lap, not on father's harpsichord. You know better than that. Now be good." She places Mischa on her lap; the kitten then curls up in a ball and falls asleep, and the girl continues to play. It is about now when she realizes that she is not alone.   
  
She pretends not to notice, deciding to continue playing, trying to act as all was normal, trying to retreat back into her mind. But she knows it's futile. Her hands, though, never fumble, continuing to play as she tries to let her mind wander. At last, when she can take it no more, she calls out into the shadows.  
  
"You're home early, father."   
  
"Keep playing," he orders, from somewhere in the dancing drawing room shadows. She obeys; her fingers continue to dance, breathing life into each note. After a few seconds of silence, the girl grows impatient, and tries to coax her father out of the shadows yet again.  
  
"Father, I know you're there, there's no reason to pretend I don't."   
  
"Yes, but you are quite fascinating to watch when you play, Elizabeth," her father, none other than the famous Hannibal Lecter steps out of the shadows and sits beside his daughter.   
  
"Am I?" Elizabeth has heard this too many times. She was born with the hands of a pianist or harpsichordist, and the result was something like watching wild creatures in their natural habitat.   
  
"I do not need to tell you again, do I, my dear? It's a shame that all of the great composers have been dead for nearly hundreds of years," her father closes his eyes as if imagining his prodigy playing alongside Mozart.   
  
Elizabeth has known for years now whom her father is. Dr. Hannibal Lecter, Hannibal the Cannibal, she knows the names, yet cares naught. Of course, when she learned of this, she was cold and distant for a few days, as was to be expected.  
  
She had a side of her that was, well, rational in the Lecter sense. She realized that her father still was as he had been, and he was the man who had introduced her to literature and music and the other arts, who paid for her clothing, and food, who treated her kindly and with love and respect. The truth made this no different. So the upset feelings were fleeting, and she remained very much her father's daughter.   
  
"Where did you get that necklace," his voice is sharp and commanding. Elizabeth blinks back into reality. She has been dreading this.   
  
"I...found...it...."  
  
"You would not be lying to me, Elizabeth," her father stares into her eyes, which match his own. Elizabeth briskly shakes her head. There were many things she'd dare, but lying to her father was not one of them. She had done so at the age of two, and her father, calm as always, had given her the "rudeness" lecture. He had not yelled, nor had admitted that he knew of her deceit, but rather explained how lying to someone such as he or her mother would be a "crime worse than murder" as neither would ever resort in lying to her. Lying had its place, but surely someone with her breeding would be above the petty lie. He had no tolerance for lying among members of his household. It would be so common, so rude, as he was not one to lie.   
  
Elizabeth had broken down, and her mother thought perhaps the mental punishment had been too harsh for such a young girl. But Elizabeth bounced back, and never had lied to her father or mother since.   
  
"No, father, you know that I would never lie to you. I found it." It was not a lie, for she did find it after all. She just didn't mention that the giver had meant for her to find it.   
  
"Why do I think that is not the whole truth? Was it simply lying on the sidewalk? A diamond in the rough?"  
  
"No..."  
  
"Well then, was it in one of your classrooms?"  
  
"No..."  
  
"Someone left it for you to find didn't they?"  
  
Silence.  
  
"Didn't they, Elizabeth?"  
  
"Well..."  
  
"Didn't they Elizabeth," her father's voice grows sterner with each repetition.  
  
"Y...yes, father. Someone left it in my locker,"   
  
"Just left it there? No indication of their motives?"  
  
Elizabeth looks at her father, knowing that he already is certain what her answer would be. "No, they left me a note. I've never seen the handwriting before in my life. When I saw it, I thought it had been from you or from mother."  
  
"Interesting. Someone has exquisite taste. Too close to mine for comfort."  
  
"You do not approve?"  
  
"I do not like this, Elizabeth. I doubt any of the ruffians whom you call classmates would have thought of something utterly poetic."  
  
"No, I suppose not."   
  
"Wear it for now, but give me the note." He paused for a moment, sniffing the air, "Ah! Your mother's home."  
  
"How can you..." but Elizabeth stops herself before answering the question. She knows better than to ask such questions. Her father always seems to know where her mother is.   
  
She has not told her father the other puzzlement. Her mind turns to the backpack in her room and the "case file" for her civics class within.   
  
***  
  
They are sitting in the drawing room now, and it is after dinner. The family sips coffee and tea, eating some freshly baked biscotti (the cookies remind her father of Florence, where they plan to travel to over the summer) as twilight streams in through one of the windows. Clarise is curled up near her husband, and Mischa takes the liberty of Hannibal's company as way, as he seems to have an affinity for the tiny feline. Perhaps it was because of its name, which Elizabeth had thought of in honor of her father's long-dead sister, or perhaps it was because there was something cat-like about both Clarise and his daughter. As there is not enough room on the leather couch, Elizabeth consents to site on a leather chair nearby. She knows that now is the time to tell of her puzzling predicament.   
  
"Well, in civics our teacher feels the best way to learn about the criminal justice system is to reenact famous trials. So far we've covered cases mostly famous ones, of course, but a few more simplistic. Remember, I was a witness in the O.J. Simpson trial. Well, this time the teacher assigned me to be the prosecuting attorney, but my position is nowhere near so easy. Let's just say Mrs. Copper chose a more...interesting trial."  
  
"And that would be?" although her mother can guess by the tone of her daughter's voice.   
  
"The trial of Hannibal Lecter."  
  
Her father tries to keep his composure, but fails miserably. He laughs his maniacal laugh, which wakes Mischa, and she scrambles hurriedly to the safety of Elizabeth's lap, clinging to her owner fearfully with claws for a moment.   
  
"I fail to see the humor in this," Elizabeth groans, as she strokes her kitten thoughtfully, "I have to stand up there and attempt to condemn my father to death in front of my entire class."  
  
"They don't know that, do they my dear," her father mentions.  
  
"Well..no...of course not."  
  
He is grinning slyly now, "Quite amusing irony, isn't it? Well, I'd be happy to help. I know every single argument against me better than the attorneys who argued them!"   
  
"Father..."  
  
"Most amusing...most amusing...."  
  
"But father, we're doing more than reenacting the trial, but adding the new crimes! I'm supposed to provide evidence on how you killed mother!"  
  
Both Hannibal and Clarise have trouble containing their mirth.  
  
"Sweet irony! How shall we say I had you, darling? Sautéed in butter sauce? No, no, that would never do. Something more sweet would be fitting, I'd have you for dessert, yes with honey, and berries and a lovely dessert wine." Clarise leans back into him seductively, and he smiles, but then Clarise regains her composure and feigns shock, "You know that most people would scream in terror hearing you say that. For that matter, who has meat for dessert?"  
  
She laughs along with him.   
  
"I'm I the only one who doesn't think this is funny?" Elizabeth is beginning to feel like the most mentally awake person in the room.  
  
"It will be fun, I can assure you. Besides, if you were to decline, they would suspect something. But Elizabeth, does it not appeal to your sense of fun? Think of it as acting!"  
  
"It is a bit awkward...isn't it?"  
  
"Out of every student in the class they choose my daughter to prosecute me! Just of curiosity, do they have someone playing me?"  
  
Elizabeth sighs, "Yes, but I do not think I'd better tell you much about him if you wish to avoid moving for a while."  
  
Hannibal Lecter raises an eyebrow, "That bad?"  
  
Elizabeth groans, "worse."   
  
"Try me."  
  
"His name is Miguel Tripe. He believes he's a genious when I've had more exciting conversations with an earthworm."   
  
"Somehow, I don't think you've talked to earthworms. Kittens, now that's another story," Clarise laughs.  
  
"Mischa's part of the family." As if in agreement, the kitten walks over to Clarise and purrs loudly.   
  
Clarise sighs in defeat as she reaches down to scratch the cat behind the ears and under her chin, "I suppose so the way the two of you spoil her. The only cat in existence that I know of who gets a daily dose of caviar."  
  
***  
  
There is a man in the shadows with revenge in his eyes.   
  
He stays in a hotel, and although it is very late, he is wide-awake. He probably has not slept in days. This mission...this crazy mission...it haunted him.   
  
It was necessary. He knew that. He needed...deserved revenge. He needed what should have been his.   
  
Some may call him crazy. He was prepared for that. But he would never rest until this mission was complete.   
  
Never.  
  
Ever.  
  
***  
  
Clarise has changed much since her disappearance from the real world. Calmer, and happier would be the best words to describe her. Sometimes she is not sure whom to love more, her husband or her daughter. And so she loves them both in a way she could never have fathomed.   
  
She ponders these as she lies in bed at tonight. Usually she would be asleep by now, but Hannibal has told her about the bird necklace. And she wonders. Elizabeth does not think highly of the boys in her class, and in either case Clarise doubts any of them have enough money lying around to actually purchase it, if her daughter misjudged any of their characters. She is worried, more worried than she has been in a while. It was like at the beginnings of her glorious new life, when she would flinch constantly in the night thinking she heard a siren or something of the sort trying to take her away and awaken her from her glorious new dream-like existence. She couldn't help but get the feeling that someone had darker motives, perhaps someone from the past, or perhaps a new foe.   
  
He had tried, of course, to calm these worries, but the lambs had started screaming again. That feeling of panic, that instability.   
  
"They are screaming, aren't they?" the soft whisper comes soothingly into her ear. She squirms with the surprise; she had thought him asleep. And yet, even in slumber he always seemed to know exactly where she was and how she felt.   
  
"Yes..." she whispers.  
  
"Then I shall have to silence them." He leans over and kisses her deeply, and she is more than willing to return the kiss. It is one of compassion, at first, but that soon melts away to hunger.   
  
His method is one of great accuracy. Soon her doubts vanish from her mind. Clarise floats on the air of dreams. She is his, and as long as this is so, all will be alright.   
  
***  
  
Soon night blends into dawn, which blends into day. The quad of Montebello High is dotted with the gray and navy of the uniforms. The boys' uniform is not too different from the girls': navy slacks, white shirt, gray jacket and navy tie. Elizabeth sits in the shade of the overhang by the classrooms, talking casually to her friend Trista.   
  
Trista is an Asian girl, tiny in stature, but large in intellect, with a beautiful alto singing voice that makes Elizabeth jealous. They sit and eat their lunches; today they have brought a different variety of sushi each, and exchange pieces with each other.   
  
"Can you believe I only have a B in civics? A B! It's because of the flu I had the a few weeks ago! So much work to make up! Can you believe?" Trista groans, although she knows that many students right now would kill for a B in the class in question, "Now this stupid trial thing. I hope she doesn't grade you down if you loose the trial." Trista is to play Dr. Lecter's defense lawyer in the trial simulation.   
  
"What makes you think you'll loose?" Elizabeth shrugs and helps herself to one of Trista's spicy tuna rolls.   
  
"Let's see, maybe because A) even if a panel of teachers act as the jury, they still will be bias because there is not a person in real life who believes he didn't do it, B) Miguel has decided not to help me at all, or even tell me his plans for the testimony, and C) You are my opponent."  
  
Elizabeth smiles, "What would that have to do with anything? I thought it was a pretty even match."  
  
"Don't flatter me! At least you have cooperative witnesses I spent the entire period listening to that little idiot ramble on and on. I guess it fits, the psychopath playing the psychopath."  
  
Elizabeth knows not whether to be disgusted or amused. "Well, in that case, he'll be believable." She decides to go with amusement. The girls laugh, and Trista takes one of Elizabeth's smoked salmon pieces."   
  
"Hello Liz!" Elizabeth cringes at the nickname as she turns around to face Miguel.   
  
"Good afternoon," she grumbles.   
  
"Hey, Liz, I was wondering, do you need any help on your trial work? My father's a policeman and so he has access to all this really cool stuff."  
  
"I have better resources than your father could even imagine."  
  
"Ah, comeon! You'd need to talk to the doctor himself to get better info than what I've got."   
  
Elizabeth works hard to contain her urge to laugh at the irony.  
  
"I've got a great house, and my dad keeps some ciggies 'round. He's always gone, and you never know what kind of 'goodies' he leaves around. We could have lots of fun," he winks, in attempt to be smooth, but this is ruined by his obvious lack of experience, and also his normal "good-boy" image. If he thinks that acting like some kind of jerk is going to get her to even give him half a wink, he is greatly mistaken.   
  
"And furthermore, I do not know anyone named 'Liz' sitting here. The last time I checked we have a Trista, an ELIZABETH, and a dimwit."  
  
Miguel snorts rudely as he laughs, not realizing that she was not laughing with him. "Aw, you're so funny! Hey! That's a really cool pen." He picks up the ordinary BIC pen that is on the bench. "I've been looking for one like this. Where did you get it?"  
  
Elizabeth rolls her eyes at his desperation, "I believe you can find it at a stationary store. That's stationary. Not grocery. Not clothing. Not antique. But stationary."   
  
She stands up to walk away, and Trista joins her. Annoyed at the rejection, he calls after the girls. "Hey Trista, about the dance next week..."  
  
They are long gone.   
  
Three hours later, she is in good spirits as she leaves school, but stops to check in her locker. So far, there have been no notes or gifts from her mysterious correspondent today, but something in her tells her to check again. Nothing.   
  
Elizabeth likes to walk home, instead of being chauffeured. There is something thought provoking about it, and usually she walks along, in her own thoughts, uninterrupted.   
  
But not today. Today a harsh, whispered tone tickles her ear, and she looks to the side from whence the voice came.  
  
"Elizabeth."  
  
She sees a man, sitting under a tree near the school, head hidden mostly under a hat. She can barely see his face, but she can tell that he is somewhat older than mother, perhaps about father's age or perhaps a little younger. If only she could see more of his face!  
  
Part of her panics and wants to run. Part of her wants to yowl like her kitten, Mischa and vanish to safety or a private corner. But there is another part of her that is strangely intrigued with this stranger who seems to know her.   
  
"Who are you?" she asks. Has she forgotten that curiosity killed the cat?  
  
The man seems to smile, but it is hard to tell with the hat there. "I know your father," was all he replied with.   
  
This seems suspicious, but Elizabeth is now overcome with wonder. Perhaps she'll investigate just a while longer and then leave at a safe distance. If he makes any attempt at anything, she knows that his sweetbreads will be served in a cream sauce reduction, or something to the degree.   
  
"That does not answer my question," she says, "And I'd like to know how you know my name."  
  
"I have my resources. Elizabeth, does your father ever hurt you? Does he ever hurt your mother?"  
  
"What are you talking about?"   
  
"Don't think I don't know. I see you're wearing the necklace. That's just a reminder, that if you ever need help, you have a place to fly away to."   
  
Elizabeth is confused, and afraid at the same time. Sudden panic grips her and she runs, not looking back until she's a comfortable number of blocks away from the tree.   
  
She knows she should tell her father as soon as possible, but something inside her says "no". Says "wait. Wait and see". What if the man was right? Was she living an illusion? True, she did know whom her father was, but what if he had been killing, without telling her and her mother, or something to the degree. Wouldn't this go against everything he'd ever taught her? She'd tell him, but later, after she had a clearer view on things. It wasn't lying if she simply forgot to mention it.   
  
***  
  
This vengeful man is quite pleased with himself. Ashamed that he must resort to such similar tactics as the doctor, but pleased at their effectiveness. It would take a little coaxing, yes, but he had no doubt that he was more than able to win.   
  
His mission was one of mercy. He was the righteous one here. Just because he resorted to evil tactics meant nothing. His cause was one of justice and fairness.   
  
Fairness.  
  
Righteousness.  
  
Truth.   
  
***  
  
"Father, was there ever a time that mother was afraid of you?"  
  
She did not know where the words came from. Perhaps they came from deep within her, the thing that told her not to tell him about the mysterious man.   
  
Her father raises an eyebrow. "What would you suspect the answer to that is, Elizabeth?"   
  
"Well, I'd assume the answer would be yes..."  
  
"Pray tell, why does this suddenly come up? Is it the trial?"  
  
She doesn't want to lie. She can't lie. "I'm not sure what it is. I just suddenly thought of it." That was pretty much the truth.   
  
Hannibal Lecter, of course, is not so easily fooled. He knows something is wrong, but decides not to press it. He will find out his own way soon enough.   
  
***  
  
The man is waiting for Elizabeth again when she leaves school the next day.   
  
"Hello Elizabeth, did you have a good day at school?"  
  
She is shocked at his familiar tone, but reminds herself of the plan. See what he is up to.   
  
"Good as can be expected. Please sir, I believe you have the unfair advantage of knowing my name when I don't know yours."  
  
"My name is....Drawcrof. James Drawcrof."  
  



	2. The Plan

TWO~ The Plan  
  
_Two eyes  
Hidden forever  
Ten fingers  
Always in view  
My identiy is in these things  
The music I weave  
And the sights I partake.  
Are my soul  
Broken in pieces  
The piece for the world to marvel  
And  
The   
Dark piece  
For the world to fear  
But never see  
This is me  
_

  
The "thinking" music Elizabeth plays to day is not the classics she usually plays, but instead "Winter" by Tori Amos, a beautiful song with a stunning piano part. Trista had given her the "Little Earthquakes" sheet music book as a gift when Elizabeth had been new to the school. It had collected dust like most of her other piano books (she prefered playing without the music there) but now she is learning. The song flows like a river.  
  
She wonders about Mr. Drascof. Friend or foe? Though she loves her father and mother, every word, every phrase, every syllable this strange man has uttered seems to be for her own safety.   
  
_"Your father does not harm you in any way?"  
  
"No. Never."  
  
"There are things I could tell you about him that would shock you."  
  
"Nothing more than I already know."  
  
"If you know, then how can you think of him as human?"_  
  
Elizabeth was not quite sure what scared her more: the possibility that James Drawcrof knew her family's true identity, or the deep, penetrating results of his question that had gone un answered. This man, this man who was her father, who loved her mother with a love so thick and deep that it was almost tangible in the atmosphere of the house, and had taught Elizabeth enough to enrich her mind, was also a cold-blooded murderer. She had always known all of this, but never really thought about it until the mysterious stranger. What if he had never changed? What if this "reality" was all just a front? What if her father was not as human as Elizabeth had thought him to be?   
  
***  
  
James Drawcrof sits at the window of his hotel room and looks down at the world. The first phase in his plan is complete. Now he just has to get the girl to trust him.   
  
When he had played this scenario over and over in his mind, he had to convince himself that he was right. Now, he is past convincing. What must be done must be done. He thinks of Clarise, or whatever one would call her now. What is she doing there, with this madman?   
  
Elizabeth is pretty, like her mother, but has a sophistication that could only have come from her father. This is what scares him. He knows that there is a balance, and only if he could tame the tiger in the lady, his plan will succeed. His plan must succeed. It is only what is right.  
  
***  
  
"This man, in his own, perverse ways has proved himself crazier than the patients he was supposed to help. He is a disgrace to the profession, a boil on the word "psychiatry". Today, ladies and gentlemen of the courtroom, it will be shown that Doctor Hannibal Lecter should be....I can't do this!" Elizabeth's voice had been growing more and more emotional as she had continued on with her opening statement. Her mother was her practice audience, and her mother alone, as she could not bare to say any of her testimony in front of her father. They are in the drawingroom, and Clarise sits with Mischa on her lap. The cat seems to be listening as intently as the mother.   
  
"Yes you can. You just have to be commanding. Act like you own the classroom," her mother advises. Elizabeth smiles at her goddess-like mother, who always taught her to be tough and not to act as man's objects, but Elizabeth is in no mood to be cooperative.  
  
"Would you like to have to do this?"  
  
Clarise sighs. "Do I really have to answer that?"  
  
"Well would you?"  
  
"Elizabeth, I've had to mask my feelings for many years! Think about it! Sometimes, when we are at a fancy party and people talk about where they think he's been, or whatever BS the FBI has come up with. And I want to scream, but I can't, and so I tell them stories. The more heated, the better."  
  
Guilt overcomes Elizabeth, and she goes over to her mother. Soon she realizes that Clarise was not trying to give her grief, but is simply reminding her of what she went through. The thought makes Elizabeth involuntarily shudder. She has heard too many stories, both from the net and from her parents to last a lifetime or two. To love a man such as Hannibal Lecter, whether wife or daughter, requires sacrifice. That is why Clarise and Elizabeth are strong: both physically and mentally.   
  
"I...I'll try again," she whispers, picking Mischa up from where she had so comfortably been sitting and carrying her for good luck. The kitten struggles at first - she had been more than happy to sit down and watch Elizabeth struggle than be a lucky charm, but once she finds her self a comfortable position, she surrenders.   
  
She clears her throat, "Alright, Today, ladies and gentlemen of the courtroom, it will be shown that Doctor Hannibal Lecter should face the harshest punishment that can be given in our criminal justice system: the death penalty. I cannot lie, and I am afraid that the evidence which I present today will not be pretty. It may shock you, offend you, even cause you to loose your lunch. Unfortunately, all this evidence is the truth, and the truth will set you free. My openent will present you today with arguments filled with emotional sentiment. They will tell of World War II scares, and other fluff to attempt to rouse pitty for this...." here Elizabeth struggled, "madman. Ladies and Gentleman of the jurry, I invite you to look at the facts, not the emotions. I am asking you today to condemn an obviously very guilty man to death. My friends, you have a very important decision to make. I put my trust in you that it will be the right one....Dang..." Elizabeth sets Mischa down on the ground, and the kitten promptly returns to Clarise. "That was....difficult..."  
  
"Very convincing," her mother gives an approving nod.  
  
"It's...not...easy."  
  
"No...no...it's not easy at all.   
  
***  
  
James Drawcrof is putting clips of newspapers from the Lecter Trial in Elizabeth's locker. He smiles, arranging each one carefully where it will be in plain site. It is first period, and all the students are in class. The campus seems dead and abandoned, like a ghost town.   
  
He takes the opportunity to look at the contents of the girl's locker and see what they may say about her. He withdraws a portable CD player with Sarah Brightman's "La Luna" inside. He nods. The combination between opera and popular music is no surprise. There are several piano books, in addition to her textbooks (she had a break after her first three periods in which to switch her books). He examines the courses she's taking: Honors Government (Civics), Italian III (advanced), Adv. Mathematics, Psychology (an elective) . There's a copy of her schedule on her locker door written neatly on a magnetic white board (her first three periods being Chemistry Honors, European Literature, and Music Theory), in addition to several notes that had been slipped through the metal vents and into a small magnetic basket that attached to the metal door. So, she is intelligent. Of course, he expected her to be as such. Also, there is her lunch bag (he shudders at this, wondering what sort of lunch she would eat). He opens this and is relieved to find nothing that appeared to be human. She has a lovely salad in a plastic container, with a little balsamic vinegar in a smaller containers, some smoked salmon, and little mini toasts to put the salmon on plus some biscotti for dessert. She has fine tastes. After examining her lunch, he takes the time to examine the notes in the basket. The first one is as follows:  
  


_Hey gal! How's your day been?  
  
-Trista_

  
  
and the writing is followed by a japanese-style drawing of a pixie. Most of the notes are similar, from the Trista character. He concludes that she tends to keep mostly to herself, choosing her friends few and carefully, but keeping them at a safe enough distance so that they don't learn anything. Fascinating. He is beginning to get a mental picture of what sort of person she is in his head.   
  
This is when the conscience grabs him. Is this how he would go about his business? Stalking the girl? But he reminds himself of the very different motives. If he had to think like a monster to save the girl, so be it. He is quite interested in his findings, but the bell rings, and he hastily slams the locker door and vanishes into the shadows.   
  
When Elizabeth returns at break, she knows someone else has been there. Though everything is mostly back in its place, there is something not quite right. Then, she sees the newspaper clippings.   
  
***  
  
Hannibal Lecter watches from the shadows as Elizabeth meets James Drawcrof. Usually Elizabeth would notice his presence, but she is so overwhelmed with curiosity and wonder that her perception seem have vanished. Bad, bad judgement.   
  
"You went through my locker today, didn't you, Mr. Drawcrof?" it is not a question, but a statement of fact.  
  
"Yes, I did."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because, Elizabeth, I want to make sure that you have everything in order."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Do you remember what I told you yesterday?"  
  
"It was nothing I didn't already know."  
  
"Then why wouldn't you answer my question?"  
  
Elizabeth bites her lip, as her brain struggles for an answer, she clenches down harder and the salty tint of blood fills her mouth.   
  
"How can I think of my father as human? Mr. Drawcrof, he is my father. He has taught me much about the arts, and about life than most people learn in a life-time."  
  
Hannibal smiles at this.  
  
"Yet he killed so many. He ate them Elizabeth. Have you forgotten who he is? Has your mother forgotten who he is?"  
  
"He is my father! He is my mother's husband! Isn't that answer enough?"  
  
The man is playing games with her mind. Lecter clenches his fist. Two can play at this game.  
  
"Your father has taught you to live a lie. He is inside your head. Elizabeth, I am telling you the truth. Did you find the newspaper clippings I left you?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"What did they say?"  
  
"Details."  
  
"About what?"  
  
"You know damn well about what!"  
  
"Elizabeth, don't yell. You saw the clippings! They told the truth! You've been living a lie Elizabeth!"  
  
"NO!" she cries, reaches in her pocket and takes two of the newspaper clips and crumples them and throws them at Mr. Drawcrof and she begins to run, letting the wind carry her. There are still three other clippings left in her pocket.   
  
"The truth will set you free Elizabeth!" the man calls after her.  
  
Hannibal Lecter sees all this. This man, what had his name been....Drawcrof....knows the family's little secret, yet has no desire to tell the FBI. Interesting. Drawcrof. Hmmm.... Hanibal retreats into his brain, into his memory palace. It is not even a second, but he knows. He knows. He knows the game. Perhaps you too have some idea.   
  
Dr. Lecter knows that he must continue on cautiously. He cannot let Elizabeth know that he has any idea of this. Should he tell Clarise? Well, the very idea may upset her, and the lambs already have been screaming with fear, however, she has every right to know. Thousands of little plans and calculations zoom in his brain, as he tries to plot the best way to deal with this pest.  
  
***  
  
Elizabeth lies on her bed with her head resting on her knees, which she hugs to her chest, Mischa is nearby, playing with the tastles that are the curtain pulls for her window.   
  
Something about watching the kitten comforts her. She pulls the newspaper clippings out of her pocket and begins to read.  
  
And she read.  
  
And she read.  
  
And she felt like screaming. And crying. And exploding.   
  
Never in her life had she been so confused. Which was right? Who was right?   
  
Was she a cat, a tiger, a creature of the night that belonged in the world of her father and mother?  
  
Or  
  
Was she a bird who was destined to fly away? A sparrow in search of summer? A little bird gaining wings for the first time? Flying on the freedom of the truth that had long avoided her.   
  
TO BE CONTINUED! (stay tuned for chapter three!)


End file.
